


Lifelines

by trufflemores_Glee_fic



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, early klaine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 23:16:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11588190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trufflemores_Glee_fic/pseuds/trufflemores_Glee_fic
Summary: Kurt needs a friend and finds so much more with Blaine.





	1. Chapter 1

Kurt is losing the tentative grip that he has on his emotions when Blaine finally speaks, honey and warm and full of unspoken emotion.

"Could you guys excuse us?"

In silent unison, Wes and David push their chairs back. Kurt doesn't look at them, but he can feel the silent conversation passing between Blaine and them. Without speaking or touching, the words _I've got this_ echo between them.

He feels safe even as Wes says, " _Take it easy, Kurt_."

They depart, leaving Kurt stranded, with no one except Blaine to keep him company. He knows that he should be afraid, should backtrack and apologize and make his departure as quickly as possible, but he can't move, frozen, feeling the thin crackling of the ice underneath his feet, knowing that he's pushed too far and ventured too deep to turn back now.

He knows how fragile his purchase is and can see it reflected in Blaine's eyes, but there is only calmness there, a flash of recognition and deep, tempered concern setting the lines of his face firm. There is no pity, and it sets something at ease in Kurt; at least, he thinks, despair thickening the lump in his throat, Blaine doesn't underestimate him, doesn't see his problems as trivial or fixable with a colorful pamphlet or catchy tune.

Instead Blaine stares at him for one long moment in perfect silence, analyzing the situation as if they were both stranded in the middle of a frozen lake he was trying to find the best way to edge closer without sending Kurt down, down, down.

And then he tosses a rope: "I take it you're having trouble at school."

_Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Thu-thump._

"I'm the . . . only person out of the closet at my school." Gingerly, scarcely daring to take it, Kurt crouches, and as soon as he feels it catch, sees the certainty in Blaine's eyes his own voice loses its strength, the heaviness of his predicament bearing down on him as he shivers on the ice, voice quaking with it. "And I -- _I_ try to stay strong about it," and there are more crackles underfoot but Blaine's confidence doesn't waver, his breathing steady, heartbeat heavy and calm enough Kurt can almost hear it, and it's the unflinching certainty in his eyes that pushes him to say, "but there's this _Neanderthal_ whose made it his mission to make my life a living hell." And Kurt wonders for a brief intangible moment when it would be like to simply plunge beneath the ice into the cold water where no one will rescue him, where nothing can touch him, where all pain is unreal.

But Blaine's gaze pulls him away from the edge, and he finds the strength to say, "And nobody seems to notice."

It's a whisper and it hurts, it hurts to tell him, numb fingers clutching the lifeline between his palms as Blaine inches closer, voice maintaining its calm, quieting cadence.

"I know how you feel." Kurt's eyes roll before he can help himself, laughter threatening to bubble out of him because Blaine isn't the one who will drown if the ice breaks.

Undaunted, Blaine ventures closer, ice crackling around Kurt but Blaine's gaze holding steady, confident and assured.

"I got taunted at my old school," he says, and holds for a moment, a flash of something unspoken passing his gaze before he quips, "and it _really_ . . . pissed me off." Still, he doesn't stop walking, his breathing calm, his heartbeat heavy in the silence, encouraging Kurt to stay afloat by sheer will power. "I even complained about it to the faculty," he recollects, and Kurt stares in unabashed amazement, trying to picture him before the blazer, before the calm confidence and serene bliss of standing atop the Warblers' pyramid, knowing his place and holding it with utter ease, and fails, "and they were sympathetic and all," and here his expression darkens, his voice dropping just so as he dips nearer, small, shuffling steps, the ice silent underneath him, an intangible, inexpressible sadness passing between them as he admits, "but you could just tell nobody . . . really . . . _cared._ It was like, 'Hey, if you're gay, your life's just gonna be miserable. Sorry.  Nothing we can do about it.'"

A shrug, and Kurt wonders how he can maintain such perfect nonchalance in their situation, his gaze and presence promising _I am here, I won't let you drown, trust me._

When he speaks again, his voice is soft, pitched to calm but tainted with its own bitterness as he says, "So I left. I came here. Simple as that."

 _It's not that simple,_ Kurt thinks even as the rope eases around his torso and is folded into a rescue knot. He wonders absentmindedly how laughable Blaine would find the situation if he knew, his own breathing deepening, heavy with nerves but trusting, trusting, the ice a little thicker beneath his feet with Blaine's weight easing him away.

"So you have two options," Blaine says, steering and pulling him towards safety, and Kurt listens, entranced, following the cadence of his voice as much as his metaphorical step. "I mean I'd love to tell you to just come enroll here, but tuition at Dalton's sort of steep and I know that's not an option for everybody. _Or,--"_ and he pauses long enough that Kurt can feel how far they've come, shuffling away from the edge and reaching a sort of no man's land, reprieve still so far away and disaster petrifyingly close, but Blaine's grasp on him steady as he says, "you can refuse to be the victim."

At once, Kurt's mind is laden with unspoken questions, but then Blaine speaks, not letting the fear crowd its way forward.  "Prejudice is just ignorance, Kurt. And you have a chance right now to teach him."

Soft, not trusting a thin rope and a beautiful stranger alone to keep him afloat: "How?"

Blaine rearranges himself in his seat and says calmly, "Confront him. Call him out."

Sensing Kurt's unease, he shifts gears, expression softening as he adds, "I ran, Kurt. I didn't stand up. I let bullies chase me away and it is something I really, really regret."

Kurt doesn't know what to say, so he licks his lips before taking a slow sip of his coffee, grateful for any excuse not to speak. He lets the lukewarm liquid sit on his tongue for a long moment, not sure what to say.

At last, he wrinkles his nose, lets out a tiny huff of laughter, and admits weakly, "I -- I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to make a decision today," Blaine says, soft, soothing, and he"s still holding the rope. Kurt doesn't need to ask him to see that, to _know_ that, in his soul. _I'm not giving up on you._

He can feel the cold acutely and he wants to run, as fast and far as he can, until he finds the shoreline and collapses gasping onto solid ground. But he'll never make it before nightfall, and if he slips in the dark he'll sink unnoticed below the water, a place where even Blaine can't reach him.

The fire in Blaine's eyes is banked but fierce. _Don't sink,_ it says.

 _I'll try not to,_ he replies. Aloud, all he says is, "Thank you."

Blaine inclines his head a fraction of an inch, a smile teasing the corners of his lips before he licks them, uncertainty coloring his voice as he says, "Would you . . . I don't want to pressure you into anything, but I don't want you to be stranded at your school if you need someone to talk to."

 _Someone who knows what it's like to feel the ice break beneath my feet,_ he doesn't say, but Kurt hears it, and the cool confidence is suddenly a warning as much as it is a promise.

_Fight this. Fight to be here. It can get worse._

"Let me give you my number," Blaine supplicates, ignoring or simply refusing to acknowledge the dark shadows lingering at the edges of those words, the silent stories he isn't telling, the life before the Dalton blazer. "You don't have to text or call or anything unless you want to, but I want you to know that I'm listening."

"That's very generous of you," Kurt says, and he wishes that his voice was stronger than a breathless whisper, gratitude pouring through every inch of him that he's not letting go of the rope, not abandoning him to the echoing silence around him.

Blaine's lips twitch in a smile that is full-watt, warm and open like it was before as he fishes out a post-it note and pen out of one pocket and scribbles down his phone number, sliding it across the table to Kurt.

Then he tugs a packet of tissues out of his pocket and offers it wordlessly to Kurt, who takes one from the top and dabs at both eyes, breathing in deeply and whispering, "Thank you."

"Any time," Blaine offers, tucking the packet away without looking away from Kurt. "Let me walk you to your car."

Kurt glances out the window at the setting sun, nodding silently as he gets up, Blaine following suite across from him.

And as silly as it seems, just having him there, a warm, breathing, living presence, and their tiny little red thread of hope, chases some of the shadows away, makes the breathtaking sadness that much easier to bear.

When he texts Blaine that night, all he writes is, _Thank you. --Kurt._

It's late enough that he doesn't expect a response right away but it blinks into being almost instantaneously, a simple, _You're very welcome._

Then, after a beat: _And Kurt?_

_Hm?_

_Courage. --Blaine._


	2. Chapter 2

It's been hours and Kurt still can't breathe, sitting on the floor in his room with his arms wrapped around his knees, willing the ground to consume him.

His dad is working late at the garage and he has never been more thankful for silence.

Then the doorbell rings.

Kurt answers it, feeling like he's entered the wrong dimension when he sees Blaine standing there, his smile bright and his eyes liquid warmth.

"I hope," Blaine says, dressed down in a dark gray cardigan and pair of red pants, "I'm not intruding?"

Kurt's own voice is brittle, but he manages to keep his emotions inward as he says colorlessly, "What are you doing here?" Even as he speaks one hand lingers on the edge of the door. A small uncaring corner of his brain prompts him to close it, to shut Blaine off before any of the noise and life he brings can touch Kurt. He doesn't want to be a part of the world anymore, wants to sit in radio silence forever, untouched and untouchable.

But Blaine's eyes drift slowly, knowingly from his own to the hand perched on the door.

Then he asks, very carefully, "Can I come in?"

Kurt doesn't know when he pointed the brunt of his emotions, spear-like, at Blaine, ready to pounce at the slightest provocation, but he retreats at once, folding inward as he steps back with a jerky nod.

"I don't know what's going on," Blaine says slowly, and Kurt has the distinct impression that he's circling, vying for time as he assesses the situation. "But I'm right here if you want to talk about it."

And suddenly the tension shatters, Kurt's voice rasping as he says, "He kissed me." There are tears in his eyes, but Blaine doesn't step closer, lets the rage in him rise to smother his vision in red as he snaps, "I followed him to the locker room and he wouldn't stop and then he _kissed me_ and honestly I'm going to kill him."

The last he says so coolly, so softly, he scarcely recognizes his own voice. Blaine doesn't speak and Kurt knows he can see the weapon in Kurt's hands, ready to skewer the first person who dares to try hurting him again.

He was blindsided before. He won't be this time.

Blaine makes no sudden moves but in two neat steps, he has his shoes off. He tucks them against the doorway with one foot and stands, the picture of unarmed, before Kurt.

Then he says: "I'm sorry."

And Kurt wants to hurt him, wants to drive the spear through him so he can feel his pain, but his knuckles turn white, tremors coursing through him as he stands his ground, jaw tight in wordless pain.

"He hurt you, it's not okay, and I'm sorry."

The chants seem to close the distance between them even as Blaine stands motionless across from him, neither retreating nor advancing, playing his cards carefully. "We can press charges."

"I'm not pressing charges." Someone else speaks with Kurt's voice, but he folds his arms and doesn't contradict it.

Blaine sighs and says, "Kurt."

"I'm not," Kurt says, and there's iron in _his_ voice this time, absolute certainty breaking through the fog of panic. "It won't solve anything."

Even caught up in his own pain and incapable of articulating it, Kurt doesn't miss the way Blaine's gaze darkens.

"He needs to be expelled." Slow, clipped, and Kurt thinks that Blaine isn't speaking to him any more than he is to Blaine, that they're on separate dimensions talking to shadows of each other.

Kurt's voice is contemptuously dull as he retorts, "He's the best player on the hockey team."

"It doesn't _matter_ what team he's on," Blaine says, and his eyes are definitely darker, iron creeping into his tone as he speaks to a Kurt who isn't home, a Kurt who refuses to come back to the dark world and its contents.

The irony bubbles out of Kurt before he can help himself: "He's on ours."

Blaine's eyebrows tick mildly upward in surprise even as he deflects, "One kiss doesn't mean anything, Kurt."

Every word is a barb in Kurt's throat, but he still manages to say, "He tried to ki--"

The syllable catches, squeaks, and dies, and there are more tears pouring down his face, suddenly. Even the protective huddle of his own arms can't seem to hold him together as he breathes out, "H-he tried to kiss me _again."_

He wants to ask Blaine to leave, wants to sink to the floor in misery, but all he seems capable of doing are little hitching breaths, like he's suffocating slowly, drowning under a wave of grief. The spear slips through his fingers and his knees fold underneath him, the hard wood a blessed smack against his bones as he crumples.

But he isn't alone, and all at once it's warm everywhere, and there's a strong set of arms locked around his back and he's sobbing into Blaine's shoulder, deep, hitching cries that shake him, rattling his world apart. _He kissed me, he kissed me, he kissed me,_ he wails. He wants to tear Blaine's cardigan apart, shred it to pieces like the scattered remnants of his heart, but it won't break, succumbing to the numbing crush of Kurt's hands indifferently.

The world is indifferent to him, and no matter how deeply the pain sinks into his skin he knows that no one else will see it, will never see the bruises that form along his skin, splattering his arms and back underneath long-sleeves and high-collared shirts. They're soft and delicate and easily overlooked, but they hurt, every day, and he tears and tears and tears the fabric until Blaine finally folds him so tightly in his arms that he can't move, can only shudder and gasp as noiseless hiccups spill past his throat.

"I'm here," Blaine says, rubbing his back, and it takes a long time for Kurt to feel it, the warmth of his palms as he strokes broad, even patterns lightly against his spine. "I'm here, I'm here, I'm here."

Kurt doesn't release the cardigan, doesn't shift an inch even as his cries taper off into nothing, reduced to the occasional sniffle against Blaine's shoulder. It should be pathetic, but Blaine doesn't make him feel pathetic. He knows it's unsafe to let his guard down, but he doesn't feel unsafe around Blaine.

He trusts Blaine because he trusts the way that Blaine doesn't reach for the spear and chase down his demons down for him.

Finn would. His dad would. Even Rachel or Mercedes would.

But Blaine? Blaine is here and Karofsky is somewhere deep in the woods, a monster but an intangible one, and all Kurt can feel is the warmth around him, the solidarity, the break in the storm. It doesn't matter how awkward their positions are, how Blaine's knees must ache like his do, how his back probably hurts from being bent in half for so long; all Kurt is aware of is how uncomplaining he is, how utterly restful and still.

 _I'm not dangerous,_ he thinks, feeling small. _I wouldn't hurt him._

He's afraid of that Kurt, the one that reached for the spear at all, ready to yield it, to hurt rather than be hurt again.

 _I know,_ Blaine says, with every breath, his own heartbeat almost audible in the soft silence. _I know._

"I'm sorry," Kurt rasps, feeling wrung out but like himself again, not the monster that came home and locked himself in his room and tried to tear his own skin apart.

"You have absolutely nothing to apologize for," Blaine says in his familiarly steady way, and Kurt can almost see him tucking the spear aside, the momentary flash of anger forgotten between them. "But," he adds lightly, retreating with a last gentle squeeze as his cardigan slips from the crush of Kurt's fingers, eyes warm and honey-like in the dimly lit room, sunset imminent, "I do think that we'd both be better off with some food."

"You're insatiable," Kurt deadpans, and even the dry wit draws a light smile from Blaine. Spent though he is Kurt manages one in reply, taking his hand when Blaine offers it. His legs unfold carefully beneath him as he stands, and he's surprised at how shameless he feels in Blaine's presence, how unapologetic. _This is who I am,_ he says, standing in the shadow of his own grief and daring Blaine to comment on it.

Blaine merely tucks an arm around his waist in a one-armed hug before slipping away and into the kitchen, taking with him some of Kurt's doubts, lifting some of his fears.

They don't speak as he makes himself at home, Kurt taking a seat at the table and folding his hands to watch as Blaine washes a generous heap of raspberries before depositing them in a white bowl and joining Kurt.

"So," he says lightly, carefully plucking a berry from the top and popping it into his own mouth, chewing thoughtfully, "you still have two options."

Kurt cocks his head, rolling his eyes when Blaine pushes the bowl lightly towards him. Taking one off the pile, he asks delicately, "And those options are . . . ?"

"I'd love to just tell you to come enroll at Dalton, but tuition is sort of steep," Blaine says, echoing his first words and eliciting a dry, humorless smile from Kurt. " _O_ _r_ ," he says, popping a berry into his mouth, chewing, swallowing, and finishing without missing a beat, "you can ask for help." Then, sobering at Kurt's expression -- and he doesn't know what it shows but it must reflect some of the storm brewing at the brink of his emotions to elicit such an immediate response -- Blaine adds quietly, "I know it's hard. And I know that most administrations . . . aren't particularly _invested_ in cases like this." Kurt doesn't have a chance to intervene and tell him _exactly_ how uninterested Principal Figgins would be before Blaine's gaze hardens and he says seriously, "But I also know that your dad would never let them push you aside, and if you make enough noise, they'll hear you out."

_Hear me out._

Kurt thinks of the bruises, of Mr. Schuester casting him _you okay, Kurt?_ glances that never amounted to anything more than a brusque nod, of brushing off Rachel's passing queries and Mercedes' persistent attempts to make him talk about it (vanishingly rare though they had been lately with her dating Sam).Â  He thinks of every waking moment spent in dread, knowing that the next shove is coming, the next low insult, the next anonymous phone message he deletes before his dad can hear them.

And he thinks of his dad finding out with a sickening rush of vertigo.

"I can't tell him," he whispers.

Blaine doesn't reply, picking a berry off the pile and chewing slowly, thoughtfully.

"The absolute last thing I want is for you to get hurt again, Kurt," he says at last, meeting Kurt's gaze and holding it, pulling him back from that dark place, leading him out from under the shadows. "But I will . . . respect your silence."

And that's that.

Not a single: _I wish you'd tell him._ Or: _You can't keep him ignorant forever._ Not even a: _It would be easier on both of you if he knew._

Just a simple declaration of support.

Kurt doesn't realize how much he needed to hear it until Blaine nudges the bowl of raspberries to him and he plucks one wordlessly from it, feeling the rage at last taper off as he accepts the wordless peace offering.

When Carole arrives twenty minutes later bearing armfuls of groceries, they both help her unload as Blaine asks her idly about her day, a strange pseudo-normalcy descending on the household as they speak.

Kurt feels lost, untethered, as he hovers near the edges, neither engaging nor detaching entirely, afraid of what will happen if he does, if he sinks into that dark stupor of his own thoughts.

Then Blaine steps up and hugs him, and he should be warier about such contact, but it's Blaine and Blaine has never hurt him, so he sinks into it instead, grateful and heavy, tangling his hands gently in the same fabric he tried to destroy before.

And Blaine relaxes just slightly at the touch, far more familiar and _Kurt_ than before _,_ and the cycle repeats itself until there's a quiet peace between them, a steady thrum of _it's okay, it's okay, it's okay_ following the rhythm of their breaths.

Kurt inhales slowly before stepping back, and there's pride and sadness alike in Blaine's gaze, quiet and assessing.

Kurt can't help but wonder, subjected to such scrutiny, if this is what Atlas feels like.

Then Burt arrives and Blaine makes his polite excuses about how dark and late it's getting, tucking his shoes on and grabbing a satchel Kurt barely remembers him bringing before bidding his farewells.

He pauses long enough to fold Kurt in one last hug, a brief one, a fragile promise of companionship.

"Text or call me," he says seriously.

Kurt nods, once.

He puts on a polite show for Carole and Burt, feigning normalcy even as his bruised heart struggles to hide his emotions. The moment he has true privacy -- and they're only happy to grant it, especially once Finn comes home and offers pleasingly arbitrary conversation about football -- he sits on his bed and pulls out his phone.

_Thank you._

At once, politely dismissive but with an undercurrent of something different, something darker. _Don't thank me._

 _Thank you,_ Kurt repeats, tapping each letter out deliberately.

A pause. Then, at last: _Any time._

He doesn't text Blaine often -- scarcely at all from the moment he showers until he's finished his moisturizing routine -- but he feels the earnestness behind each response, a simple, _I know_ or _I'm here_ carrying more weight than he can convey behind the screen.

When, at last, words aren't enough, he calls.

"I can't sleep," he whispers into the dark and quiet of midnight, and Blaine _hum-hums_ in soft amusement on the line.

"I can tell," he whispers back.

He doesn't hang up, even when his yawns intersperse every third word. He doesn't stop murmuring responses until Kurt asks him what the capital of France is and in a breathy sleepy voice Blaine replies, "Sweden."

Only then, grinning with a joy that forms inexplicably in the cool wake of anguish, Kurt announces in a hushed voice, "I'm going to bed now."

"Mmm."

"You should, too."

"Mmhm."

"Good night, Blaine."

Blaine's only response is his own soft, even breathing, and Kurt smiles as he ends the call, tucking his phone next to his bed.

In the morning: _I'm so sorry I fell asleep._

 _I love you,_ Kurt thinks, and means it, but all he replies is, _It's okay._

And somehow, in spite of everything, it is.


	3. Chapter 3

"Give me your hand."

Blaine obliges, neatly sliding his palm across the table as Kurt wraps both hands around it, the gravity of his words at odds with the giddiness in his voice as he quips: "Blaine Warbler."

Blaine's lips twitch in a smile even as his heart plummets, resting somewhere at his feet as Kurt finishes, "Will you go to Junior Prom with me?"

"Prom?"

"It'll be the social event of the season." There's a breath, a knowing pause. The _yes_ is caught in Blaine's throat, his collar so tight that he wants to strip his shirt and throw it to the ground and pace and pace and pace until the soles of his feet ache and his lungs hurt and he's gasping for breath but at least he can run, and if he runs far enough he can outrun the memories.

"You don't want to go to prom with me?" Kurt asks at last, utterly oblivious but crestfallen.

"No, no, of course not, of course I want to go with you." Ears ringing, blood in his mouth and he hates the way copper tastes like a jar full of pennies, his senses overwhelmed with ringing white noise even as someone looms overhead. _Run,_ a voice whispers. _Run, run, run, run. "_ It's just ... _prom_."

"What about prom, Blaine?"

_What about prom, Blaine?_

" _I don't make a habit of interrogating the new kids,"_ David says lightly, and Blaine's glad that he doesn't bump his shoulder from behind because he doesn't know his own reflexology, yet, how fight or flighty he would be if provoked but his fair disposition and easygoing countenance are already crumpling, exhaustion settling into their place as he looks up from the small circular table with vacant eyes and listens to David speak. " _But you seem . . . troubled."_

Blaine's throat clicks when he swallows and he hates how close he is too giving in to his emotions. " _That obvious?"_ he rasps.

" _I'm_ _very observant,"_ David assures, sinking into the seat across from him and locking gazes. " _Talk to me."_

" _It's a long story."_

David pulls his phone from his pocket and wordlessly turns it off, setting it on the table between them and looking at Blaine pointedly.

" _Talk to me."_

Blaine chuckles, a hollow noise, and licks his lips.

Then he puts down the first card. " _I'm gay."_

And David doesn't even lift an eyebrow. Folding his hands on the table and holding Blaine's utter attention, he says simply, " _Okay."_

Blaine laughs, a bitter sound tinted with disbelief as he demands, " _Okay?"_

David doesn't respond and Blaine reaches up compulsively to run a hand over his hair, wincing when it comes away sticky with gel.

Then lowering his voice, he admits, " _I was in the hospital for five days."_

Silence.

"At my old school," he begins, willing the tremble out of his voice as Kurt watches him intently, innocent and intrigued, unaware of the way Blaine's heart is racing or the taste of blood in his mouth, "there was a Sadie Hawkins dance."

" _What happened?"_

There's a lump in his throat and he's trying not to think about it, trying not to let the hot tears pour down his cheeks again because the last person he wants to disgust is David, David who has been nothing but welcoming to him, who _doesn't know_ him, who wouldn't know him if he could keep his mouth shut.

Still, David's gaze doesn't condemn him and he speaks, unbidden. _"I_ _made a mistake."_

" _What kind of mistake?"_

" _I thought that maybe because no one at my school was openly hostile, things had changed."_ Then, darkly, he amends, " _There were signs. They, uh. They used to leave messages. On my locker. Or call the home phone on a line I couldn't trace. But I wanted to be the bigger person. And I had friends. So I thought . . . it was okay. And after six months of rumors, I decided to make it official and told them."_

When the pause stretches long enough, David finally prompts, " _I take it that it didn't go well."_

Ashamed, bitter: " _No."_

"And I had _just_ come out--" He's struggling to keep his emotions in check, knowing that he can't hide the truth from Kurt forever even if he wishes he could. "So I asked a friend of mine -- the only other gay guy in school."

" _They thought it was too risky. Asking for it. But I was . . . tired of living in the shadows. So I asked Caleb -- the only other gay guy in school --to the dance._ _And while we were--"_

"--waiting in the parking lot for his dad to pick us up--"

"-- _these three guys_ . . ."

". . . beat the living crap out of us."

David doesn't say a word.

" _My friends didn't talk to me after that."_

A single arched brow betrays David's surprise, even as the rest of his expression remains utterly mild. " _Why?"_

" _B_ _ecause I refused to lie about who I am."_

A pause, deferential and contemplative. Then, slowly, David says, " _You went back."_

" _Briefly."_ A dark smile curls Blaine's lips as he whispers, " _C_ _aleb was in bad shape, so he couldn't, but I . . . I went back. And everything I owned, every pen, every sheet of paper, every picture I'd strung up, was gone. They'd flushed out my entire locker. And I took it to the administration because I was tired of being ignored, but they said,"_ and here his throat clicks as he swallows, voice thin as he finishes, " _they couldn't replace stolen or lost items unless they caught the perpetrator on camera. And that was that."_

David waits and finally asks, " _When did you leave?"_

" _Three weeks later. Someone put a knife in my locker and I couldn't get out fast enough."_

" _What did your friends say?"_

A rueful smile curls Blaine's lips in spite of himself as he asks, " _What friends?"_

"I'm out," he tells Kurt, speaking across years, wondering when the roles were so reversed that Kurt could ever look at him as anything other than a pariah, a failure, "and I'm proud." _Proud that my broken hands healed, that my black eye faded, that I stopped taking painkillers for cracked ribs six months ago, that I stopped having nightmares every night three weeks after that, that they never wrote their hatred on me in a way I couldn't erase._ "This is just . . . a sore spot."

It's inadequate, horribly so. And he feels the weight of David's gaze on him, too, as he reaches across the table and clasps his hand. He feels the depth of his shared sorrow as tears trickle down his face, his gaze averted to the window as the silence stretches between them.

And he feels the sincerity behind the words as David says, " _Y_ _ou're not alone here."_

Kurt's voice is bright, incongruously so as he says, "This is perfect." Then, sensing Blaine's confusion, he adds, "You couldn't face up to the bullies at your school so you can do it at mine. We can do it together."

Blaine can't, doesn't, speak.

So David does. " _I'm sorry that they hurt you,"_ he says.

Blaine lets out a joyless laugh because _hurt_ is inadequate, _hurt_ is a scraped knee or a bee sting, _hurt_ isn't sleepless nights and world-consuming terror and blood in his mouth and the pain in his ribs that won't yield.

" _B_ _ut even if there wasn't a zero tolerance policy here,"_ David continues, slow, methodical, pulling him away from those memories, " _we're a family. And the Warblers look out for their own."_

"But I have to say, Blaine," Kurt interjects quietly, reaching across the table to hold his hand again, neither imploring nor supplicating, just there, silently supportive, "that if it makes you -- _at all_ uncomfortable, we'll forget about prom. We'll go to a movie instead."

And he sees the absolute certainty in Kurt's gaze, echoed by David's, and knows that he means it, that he doesn't have to go back, that he doesn't have to step into that nightmare anymore. He can forget about it.

He can walk away from it.

But Kurt, who approached him stranded out on the ice, hadn't backed down from the challenge. He'd trusted Blaine and let Blaine guide him, even if his advice meant falling and getting back up again.

Blaine knows that there is a shore he'll never reach if he doesn't dare to try and cross the waters again.

And Kurt wants to go with him.

Knowing exactly how much Kurt is risking to take that plunge, Blaine can't help feel warmed by it, relieved that he doesn't have to do it alone, that he won't be left to drown if he fails.

"I am _crazy_ about you," he whispers.

Kurt's smile is like sunshine breaking through the clouds as he asks, "So is that a yes?" He's back to his old self, amicable and warm, and Blaine can't help but reflect his optimism.

"Yes." Kurt literally bounces in his seat, a grin lighting up his whole face as Blaine insists, " _Yes._ You and I . . . are going to the prom."

What he didn't tell David that day was _I ran. I let bullies chase me away and it is something I really, really regret._

But what he _does_ tell Kurt that night, sitting in a booth at the Lima Bean, is _I went back. I refused to lie about who I was. And I didn't let them break me._

It becomes a mantra, an affirmation of everything he is, a reconciliation with a past that never forgave him.

 _They can't break me_.

And at last, days later, dressed to the nines and ready to meet Kurt, he draws in a deep breath and takes the plunge.


	4. Chapter 4

_Okay, Anderson. Deep breath._

"Need a hand?"

Burt only pauses long enough to confirm his suspicions before responding, "Yeah, why don't you hand me that carburetor?"

 _You can do this._ Blaine picks it up and passes it Burt's way, carefully suppressing the nerves that want to shake him out of his skin. _This is Kurt Hummel's father,_ a quiet voice reminds him, a warning in the dark. _Do not cross the line._

"How'd you know which one it was?" Burt asks, on his guard but insofar oblivious to Blaine's intent.

 _Not too late to walk away_ , he thinks.

Pushing his anxiety aside, he aims for light, even conversational as he says, "My dad and I rebuilt a '59 Chevy in our driveway two summers." Folding his arms, he adds with a hint of laughter in his tone, "One of his _many_ attempts at bonding."

Burt's shoulders relax and there's something professional and detached in his voice when he says, "You here looking for parts?"

_I wish I was._

Forcing the mutinous voice downward before it can snatch the opportunity to escape and pretend this never happened, Blaine pushes through and admits, "No, actually, I wanted to talk about Kurt."

At once, Burt's demeanor shifts from wary to concerned parent. "Is he okay?"

_Dad, Dad, I need you to pick me up, something happened, it's --_

Drawing in a deep, fortifying breath, Blaine forces the memories back. They're rawer than he expects and it rattles him. Still, he didn't come here to bleed his heart out to Burt Hummel.

With a grimace he hopes isn't too audible, he asks, "Have you ever . . . talked to him about . . . sex?"

Burt's friendliness drops. "Are you gay, or straight, or what?"

Oddly enough, the question puts Blaine's whirring thoughts to rest briefly as he says dryly, "I am definitely gay."

" _You've thought this through?"_

" _There's nothing to --_ think through, _Dad, it is what it is."_

" _Have you ever even kissed a boy?"_

" _Have you?"_

Michael's expression is so dark that Blaine thinks in a different lifetime, he wouldn't walk away unchecked. Instead, his words are stony as he says, " _That's not funny."_

" _How can you possibly know how straight you are if you've never kissed a man?"_ Blaine challenges, the tightness in his chest offering a strange sort of courage. _You can't hurt me,_ he thinks.

"Okay, good," Burt says, and Blaine's fears vanish. "I mean, you know, whatever," he qualifies, and Blaine thinks _why is it so easy for you but not for them?_ but he doesn't ask. Wes and David and the Warblers were the same way, and everyone he's ever _met_ has been the same way.

The asterisk occluding the otherwise perfect record still hurts. _Everyone except the three guys that beat the shit out of you and the administration that did nothing to protect you and the world that still fights against you._

"But, uh . . . you know, good for Kurt," Burt finishes.

Blaine wonders what he'd say to all of the unspoken thoughts, how strongly he'd react to each proposition, each qualifier, each _I'm not going to lie about who I am_ , which nerve he'd strike that would result in the inevitable _I don't want this in_ my _life_ quip.

"He needs someone like you to talk to," is all Burt says.

Blaine wants to nod, wants to say a million things, but forces himself to say only the most important as he adds, "Well that's -- kind of my point. I've tried talking to him." He'd tried and tried and tried, but his dad would never listen because there was _gay_ and then there was "experimenting" and Blaine couldn't be the former without tangible proof that Michael didn't want to see.

"But he basically puts his fingers in his ears and starts singing," he concludes, and it tastes bitter on his tongue that it isn't merely Kurt he's referring to.

And in a show of optimism that is breathtaking in its capacity, Burt _smiles_ and says, "Well, when he's ready, he'll listen."

 _You listened to him when he came out._ Blaine knows it's true, all at once, and there's a lump in his throat because he wonders what that first conversation with his dad would have been like if his response had been _okay_ and not stoic silence.

"I'm worried that it might be too late," he says, the conversation that made his hands shake with nerves in the parking lot almost laughably mundane now, the words flowing steadily as he explains it. "You know, Dalton doesn't even have sex ed classes. Most schools don't, and the ones that do, almost never discuss what sex is like for gay kids." Burt's expression flattens and Blaine knows that he's losing him, that he's fast approaching that line in the sand of _do not cross_.

He's crossed it once. He still flinches at the thought of Kurt's ashen face after he very delicately explained what had happened and how Kurt's dad was _downstairs_ making eggs and pretending not to care about the fact that there was a boy in Kurt's bed, a near total stranger. He had to duck his aching head apologetically and will the earth to swallow him whole as he fled the Hummels' house as fast as humanly possible, tiptoeing down the stairs and out the door. He won't soon forget what it's like to stand on the other side of Burt's good nature, to be in his bad books, his _I don't like you_ category.

So, he switches tactics, thinking back to what's familiar, what's easy, what they can both agree on. "Kurt is -- is the most moral, compassionate person I've ever met."

"You know, he gets that from his mother," Burt says, offering him a lifeline.

Blaine picks up the rope and swallows back the emotions clawing at his throat because he refuses to lose it _here. "_ And -- and I'm blown away by your guys' relationship," he says honestly, because he knows how Kurt talks about his dad, how honest and open and earnest their relationship is, the hugs and _I love yous_ so natural that Blaine can hardly fathom what life was even like before Kurt was out, what life must have been like for both of them.

" _Hey, I --I need to talk to you."_

Michael stops tuning the guitar and looks up at Blaine, and for a moment Blaine's struck by how very _Cooper_ he seems, his half-grin playful as he asks, " _What's on your mind? You look like the Packers just got creamed."_

" _I -- have you--"_   Blaine swallows and he's thirteen and small and he hates the way his voice trembles as he asks, " _You don't care who I . . . date -- right?"_

" _Of course not."_ Breathless relief floods Blaine and there are tears at the corners of his eyes until Michael plucks a string and asks with that same childlike grin, " _Who's the lucky girl?"_

And Blaine can't speak, can't get the words out and give voice to the nightmare that's been keeping him up for weeks.

" _You've thought this through_?" he asks, after the longest silence Blaine's ever endured, and Blaine's throat closes up.

He forces out the words because he's never told anyone and there's something about Burt that he doesn't fear anymore. "You think my dad built a car with me because he loves cars?"

Blaine's question echoes in the silence.

" _How can you possibly know how straight you are if you've never even kissed a man?"_

Michael's stoicism breaks, a softer expression overtaking the storm brewing as he rubs a hand over his face. " _It's not safe, Blaine_ ," he says at last, closing the conversation.

Blaine is proud that his voice doesn't catch as he says, " _So you think I should stay in the closet."_

" _Do you know what happens to gay people_?"

" _I can't spend my_ life _hiding because someone else disapproves of my lifestyle."_

" _I don't want you to get hurt, Blainey."_

" _Don't call me that."_

" _People will make your life a living hell if you do this."_

" _Do_ what? _Exist?"_

" _It's not safe."_

" _I don't care."_

Prophetic words, he thinks, as he manages a bitter sort of smile and tells a truth he never thought he'd speak: "I think he did it because he thought . . . getting my hands dirty might make me _straight."_

Burt doesn't, can't, see the underlying conversation, but his words are equally blunt as he asks, "You know, did he talk to you about this, uh, kind of stuff?"

Blaine almost laughs at the thought.

"No. I had to go find it for myself." 

And he hates the way his hands shake, hates the way _hate crimes_ pops up so regularly, but most of all he hates the way that he can't seem to shut out the slurs no matter how refined his searches are, they chase him in the tags, a condemnation his dad won't say but means with every hint of _have you ever even kissed a boy_?

"The Internet is great, and all the information is out there," he says, and if his voice betrays little of the inner disgust he feels then he's glad, at least, because it may be Kurt's _only_ outlet at this rate, he's just not _listening_ to Blaine, and maybe it's reckless and stupid and a poor choice of words but he says them anyway even as Burt drifts away, putting space between them, "but I went searching for it. Kurt _won't._ And one day, he'll be at a party . . . and maybe have a few drinks and meet some guy and start fooling around and he's not going to know about using protection or -- or STDs or--"

 _What am I saying_? he thinks, and he's in a hospital bed and there are tears on his face and everything hurts and he just wants to undo the universe that made him this way, that made people _hate_ him, and he screams his anguish into Michael's shoulder as his arms curve around him, holding him together as his universe dissolves around him, everything collapsing into _why why why why._

Taking a breath, he stares into the face of Kurt's father, not knowing exactly what terrors he'll invoke for Kurt if he pushes this too far but trusting, somehow, that it won't happen, and says: "I don't have the relationship with my dad that you have with Kurt."

They had to break him first, had to spook him far enough from his own school, from a place where he'd thought he'd been _safe,_ before Michael had even dared to hug him again.

Burt had all but hunted Karofsky down on the spot when he learned how he was threatening Kurt. And no matter what Blaine knows or doesn't know about him, he knows that Burt didn't wait for Kurt to prove how deadly serious he was about being _who he was._

"I think it would be really cool if you took advantage of that," he says softly, meaning it, hoping that if nothing else he impresses on Burt that he cares about Kurt and just wants to keep him _safe_ before the worst happens.

" _I'm so sorry,"_ Michael says, over and over and over until it's all Blaine can hear, fisting his shirt and sobbing painfully into his shoulder. " _I'm so, so sorry."_

He stays there, every hour, every minute, it seemed, signing papers and talking with doctors and promising in his low-brow tight-jaw way that he won't rest until they found a solution. And then he finds Dalton and Blaine spends hours researching it online because what does a zero tolerance policy even mean and what if it isn't enforced but he still agrees to go because he has no other options than to _trust_ and try again.

So he looks at Burt and, having laid all his cards out, quietly retreats in the face of his stoicism, knowing that the situation isn't in his hands anymore.

"I'm sorry if I'm overstepping," he offers, feeling small and subdued, unsure if he's impressed any of the points he's meant to.

Burt works his jaw and for a moment Blaine thinks there are other, more pointed words that he wants to say. In true Kurt Hummel fashion, he answers dryly, "You are."

Taking the dismissal for what it is, Blaine bows his head slightly and turns to leave, making it exactly four breathless steps before he hears it.

"If it was anyone else, I'd be worried there was an ulterior motive," Burt calls to his back, just loud enough for him to hear, _step, step, step, step_ , "but I trust my son and he trusts you."

Blaine turns slowly to face him and Burt is there, wiping his hands off on a rag before extending his right one to Blaine. He shakes it, not sure why his throat is so tight but grateful, nonetheless, for the way that Burt offers the peace treaty.

"I'll talk to him," he says simply.

"Thank you," Blaine breathes.

And if his own dad has a pair of Packers tickets and a sheet of paper with a big question mark on it sitting on the kitchen table when Blaine arrives home, he knows it's purely coincidental but still grins and calls him to say, "Did you really have to ask? Of course."

"Blainey, we've been through this, it's impolite to assume anything--"

Heart in his throat, Blaine says, "I love you."

Michael doesn't miss a beat: "Love you, too, kid. Everything all right?"

"Yeah," Blaine says, and finally means it. "Everything's . . . sort of crazy, but pretty great, Dad."

"Crazy as in 'I just puked purple' or 'I just won the lottery'?"

"Oh god please tell you're joking."

"Your words, Blainey."

"I'm never going to be able to show my face around anyone ever again," Blaine says, picking a bag of chips out of the cabinet and crunching down on one. "Ever. I think I just scarred Kurt's dad for life."

"A specialty of yours."

"Very funny. Also, I'm sorry, Kurt's calling--"

"That's fine. Stay safe."

"Sure, sure. Thanks again."

"Anytime."

Heart surprisingly light and almost giddy with relief, he picks up the phone with a simple, "Hey, you."

And he can't help but relax into the conversation because he's not stuck in a time vortex of misery but _here._ Even if it isn't easy and it still makes his hands shake and his chest tight to dwell on, he's here and his dad loves him and maybe it's not like Kurt and Burt with their implicit and easy and always love, but it's there and theirs and that's good enough for him.

Maybe confronting Kurt's dad for the first time dredged up old memories, but seeing the tangible proof of his dad _now_ helps lock the demons away, banishing the sneers and taunts that they used to fling at him.

 _You can't hurt me,_ he thinks. _You can't change who I am._

_And you can't hurt him, either._


End file.
